


throw me in the deep end (watch me drown)

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bad Science, Begging, Brainwashing, Consent Issues, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:18:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7170776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greer tilts his head. It makes him look like a reptile, some ancient predator. "Do you know anything at all about neuroanatomy, Mr. Reese?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	throw me in the deep end (watch me drown)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Hold Me Down" by Halsey.
> 
> Please note that this fic contains descriptions of torture & brain surgery. The dubious consent / consent issues tags refer to hallucinations / simulations of sexual intercourse during an interrogation.

**PART I.**

John opens his eyes to blindingly bright light and the smell of disinfectant, which is disturbing on a number of levels, especially given that his last memory is running through a corridor under gunfire with Samaritan agents chasing him.

"You've decided to join us again, I see," Greer's posh, slightly malicious accent cuts in.

John's hands and ankles are tied to the chair, and he can't move his head even an inch: there is something cool wrapped around his head like a steel band. Wonderful.

"Small naps during daytime increase productivity," John rasps. He flexes against the restraints experimentally, but it only makes his shoulders hurt: his cuffs won't budge. His view of the room is limited since he can't turn his head, but even so, he can see enough to feel like a rat in a high-end medical laboratory.

"I've been reliably informed that many people have tried to extract information from you in the past, and that they all failed miserably." Greer is talking to the security camera above John's head, like an actor who forgot his lines and keeps looking backstage for reassurance. "So I won't bore you with conventional interrogation techniques."

"Being tied to a chair feels pretty conventional to me," John says.

Greer tilts his head. It makes him look like a reptile, some ancient predator. "Do you know anything at all about neuroanatomy, Mr. Reese?"

There are blinking lights and thick bundles of wires in John's peripheral vision. "I know you're going to black out if I hit you over the head with a blunt object real hard," John says pleasantly. "I'm looking forward to it already."

John tries to ignore the panic that is rising up in his chest: maybe if he dislocates his shoulder or breaks his thumb, he could pull one hand free from the restraints, but that would still leave the issue of his head being bolted to a chair and possibly attached to a lot of suspicious wires. Not a great solution.

Greer holds something in his hand that looks like a thin metal wire. "You know, humanity has really made a leap in the neurosciences. We know so much more about the brain than we did just a decade ago. Deep brain stimulation has made it possible to treat seizures, tremors, even Parkinson's without surgical alteration of the brain, simply by placing electrodes inside specific areas and directing electrical currents through them."

John has a very bad feeling about where Greer's bond-villain speech is going. He tries to move his head again, only this time a sharp pain shoots through his neck like someone is stabbing him with a needle. Horrifyingly enough, it is of course entirely possible that John is indeed being stabbed with a needle at this very moment.

"You see, Mr. Reese, we all like to think that we are intelligent, independent creatures outfitted with moral values and the capacity for reason," Greer muses, twisting the wire in his hand. "Humans like to imagine that they are above the basic impulses for survival and procreation, when in fact, neuroscience tells us the exact opposite: that beneath it all, we are still ruled by our lizard brains."

John has a sudden memory of Kara's voice saying: _If it gets too bad, you can always bite off your tongue and choke yourself on it, boyscout._ They had been captured during a recon mission, and two men had been putting her head into a bucket filled with brown, sluggish water again and again. The fifth time she came up for air, she kicked one of the guard's knees out and headbutted the other one, and then winked at John even while she was coughing on the floor.

Greer touches his fingertip to his temple. "The question is simple, Mr. Reese. Would you like to give me the information I want on your own terms, or do you want me to reach into the most private parts of your head and take it from you?" There is a manic glint in his eyes. "Where is Harold Finch? What is the location of the Machine?"

John gives him a blank stare. Greer shrugs and nods at someone in the back of the room, and something bright and hot flares up from the base of John's skull like an explosion, making his teeth chatter.

\--

The sheets are smooth and slick beneath John's stomach. His hands hurt where he is gripping fistfuls of the sheets, trying to stop himself from rubbing his cock against the fabric. His throat feels raw where his breath scrapes against it, and despite his panting it's hard to get enough _air_ in. He needs to control himself. He doesn't remember exactly _why_ it is so important, but he needs to hold back, he can't let go, it's very important that he _doesn't let go._

Harold's hands are warm and firm on John's back and thighs, and he has his cock buried deeply inside of him, rocking forward in a steady, merciless rhythm.

"Just tell me," Harold's voice says, soft and seductive. He presses an open-mouthed kiss against the top of John's spine. "It will all be over if you just tell me, John."

John groans. Oh god, he wants to. He wants to come so badly, wants to surrender control and shudder apart under Harold's hands. John's cock twitches desperately, leaking more precome into a puddle on the sheets. He is so hard he thinks he might go insane. " _Please,_ " John says, every word like barbed wire in his mouth. "Please let me come."

The next thrust makes the edge of John's vision go dark. He is suspended in time and space: it could be hours, or years. Nothing feels real except the weight and heat of Harold's body on top of him, the ache of every thrust inside him, winding him up even more. John feels hollow, bottomless, and he knows that it will go on forever, that Harold will break him wide open and make him beg and scream and that it will never stop –

The room flickers and the lights explode into the brightness of the operating room again, and John gasps with the loss of warmth and contact. The fantasy felt real enough that John wants to throw up at the idea that it was created by someone stabbing his brain with a needle and cranking up the voltage. Greer raises a skeptical eyebrow: while John can't look down, he is pretty sure that he is visibly hard and probably leaking into his pants.

"Well, I think I might be able to guess what kind of base instinct our little experiment managed to trigger in you," he says. "Does it feel convincing, Mr. Reese? I can only assume that it does. The area we're stimulating is called the _Limbic System_ , a part of the brain that is involved in many aspects of behavior, memory procession and motivation. What you just experienced was direct stimulation of the _Nucleus accumbens_ , a part of the so-called 'reward system' of the brain that is activated during positive emotional responses, use of euphoriant drugs and sex. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Even the touch of fabric against John's cock feels too much, and his balls hurt like somebody kicked him in the groin. He can't decide between wanting to go back to the feeling of Harold buried inside him, trapped in an infinite loop of desperate, aching desire, or staying in this brightly lit room like a butterfly pinned to a piece of cork.

Before John can decide either way, Greer gives him a long, hard look. "Tell me about Harold Finch."

"Go to hell," John says, and this time he is prepared for the flash of light and pain when it comes.

\--

"I can make you feel so good," fantasy-Harold says, and "Just tell me, John, and you'll be allowed to come," fucking John with his cock and fingers, and John clenches his teeth and screams into the pillow and begs until his voice is hoarse.

"Harold, _please,_ let me," John says, like Harold might be _reasoned_ with. Like if there was someone, anyone who might understand, it had to be Harold, even the version of him John's brain has conjured.

There is a moment when Harold pulls out and cups his hand around John's balls and John whimpers and pushes back against his hand, too exhausted to even beg anymore.

"Just tell me," Harold says, his hand stroking the small of John's back, "I'll give you what you need if you stop being so stubborn."

John shudders. He tastes blood where he has been biting at the inside of his cheek to distract himself, and the tenderness of Harold's hands on him is almost enough to undo him. All he wants is to stop fighting, to give into that overwhelming _need_ and let Harold take him over the edge, make him come so hard that John forgets his own name. Distantly, John realizes that there is more to it than that, remembers bright lights and cold steel and a malicious smirk and knows that he can't, he _can't_ give in –

For a moment, John thinks that Harold is done with him: his hands disappear from John's back and John takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then Harold's hands are on his asscheeks, spreading him open, and his mouth is wet and hot against John's opening, licking into him. John makes thin, helpless noises, his cock hard and aching, trapped underneath his stomach. John realizes with a desperate whimper that he can't hold out forever, that at some point he will have to come or he will lose his _mind._

"This doesn't stop until you tell me what I want to know," a voice says, except it's not Harold's, it's _Greer's_ , and then, mercifully, the world goes dark.

\--

"Reese? _Reese?_ "

The sounds come from very far away, like he's listening to a radio station turned to low volume. Then somebody slaps him hard across the face, and John jolts back into the present, sits up and blindly grabs for his attacker.

"Calm down, it's me," Sameen says, reaching for him like she's grabbing a puppy by the scruff of its neck. Her hand comes away bloody. "Christ, what the hell–"

"Electrodes," John says, relief flooding through him like cool, clear water. "Deep brain something. Zoned out during most of the science talk."

Sameen looks like she wants to demolish a wall with her fists. Then again, it might just be her resting facial expression. John feels like somebody hit him over the head with an shovel repeatedly, but he is so glad to see her that he bows his head and lets it rest against her shoulder. She smells like plastic explosives and Pastrami sandwiches.

"God, you're a mess," Sameen says, sounding annoyed, but she doesn't shove him away.

John feels the blood trickling down from the back of his neck, hot and sticky. He is close enough that he can hear Harold's tinny voice in the earpiece: _"Sameen? Is John alright? How bad is it?"_

"I didn't tell them anything," John mutters, still leaning against Sameen's shoulder. He doesn't know if Harold can hear him, but it seems important to say it. "Didn't give in. Please, I need – Can I please–"

The room is spinning and the lights are too bright. There is acid bile at the back of John's throat and Harold's voice is like a beacon in the darkness. John closes his eyes for a moment and rests.

**PART II.**

The electronic lock chimes and the little light turns green when John swipes the keycard over it and opens the door. Inside, the hotel room looks like the command center of a moderately sized spaceship: there are three different laptops sitting on a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by various blinking and beeping bits of electronics that John has trouble identifying. Between the mess of wires and computer parts, Harold sits on a chair with a comically large pair of headphones on his head.

"Are you hacking the Pentagon again?" John asks. He looks around for a place to set down the takeout containers that isn't technically 'close to any computer equipment'.

Harold turns around bodily and removes the headphones. "I'll have you know that running surveillance on a number who is not, as it happens, completely ignorant of technology, is a little more difficult than just drilling a hole into the wall or hiding a camera in an air vent."

John shrugs. "If you say so," he says, but he's smiling. He got Harold an extra order of that spicy soup he likes and is prepared to spend an evening reading on the couch while Harold invades other people's privacy with extremely expensive surveillance tech.

Only that there isn't a couch in sight anywhere John can see: he leaves the takeout next to a closed laptop on the coffee table and opens the door to the bedroom. No couch there, either, only a door to the ensuite bathroom and a large double bed. John swallows.

It's been more than five weeks since he's been abducted by Samaritan, and while he has mostly avoided to talk about the details of his interrogation, John isn't too keen on sharing a bed with Harold for a variety of reasons. While Sameen has reassured him that, as far as she can tell, no permanent neurological damage has been done to his brain, John wakes up from dreams about the electrode-induced fantasy almost every night, mostly with a painful hard-on and a wet spot on the sheets. That alone wouldn't even be so bad: John is used to sleeping little, and as far as nightmares are concerned, he'll take sexual frustration over the bleach-and-gunpowder dreams of his CIA time any day.

The real problem is that John can't get _release_ : he wakes up before he gets to come, and when he tries to jerk off after, it feels like he's trapped in that same, frustrating scene over and over again: Harold won't let him come until John tells him everything, but John _can't_ tell him everything, so he is left at the knife's edge of orgasm, jerking his cock until he's sore and still hasn't come and wants to _scream._ He has taken to long, cold showers in the middle of the night, or, if that doesn't help, long runs that leave him too tired to contemplate his libido.

John decides not to mention the sleeping arrangements: if Harold is aware of there only being one bed, he probably expects that John won't be bothered by it or will sleep on the floor anyway, and even if he didn't notice yet, John can't very well ask him to pack up a day's work and relocate due to John's offended sensibilities.

They eat dinner out of the cartons with plastic forks while listening to the audio feed of their latest number, which proves mind-numbingly boring. After, Harold gets more work done while John listlessly pages through the book he brought, trying to distract himself from the fact that he will spend the night in close proximity to Harold.

It's not like the whole thing caught John completely by surprise: he has known for a while that sleeping with guys isn't just a _take whatever you can get_ thing for him. Gender doesn't matter to John's dick as long as he's into someone. When Harold inserted himself into John's life, all mystery and disapproving looks and sharp three-piece-suits, John wasn't surprised when he found himself wondering if Harold's lips would feel as soft as they look, or what noises he'd make if John went to his knees and spent an afternoon sucking his cock. That John's brain has chosen one of those late-night fantasies during his interrogation is unfortunate: just the thought of sex makes John's balls hurt by now, and Harold's presence doesn't exactly improve the situation.

Harold powers down his laptop and stretches in his chair. "I think I might retire for the night," he says. Then he gets up and limps into the direction of the bedroom, only to return three seconds later with a pained expression. "I think our cover identities made the impression of being romantically involved with each other."

John laughs despite the tightness in his chest. "It's fine, Harold, I can sleep on the floor."

Harold frowns. "Don't be ridiculous." With that, he leaves again, probably to use the bathroom.

John wonders if he can get away with a few cold showers during the night.

\--

Even though he took care to fall asleep at the edge of the bed with as much as room as possible between him and Harold, John wakes up with one leg thrown over Harold's and his face buried in in Harold's armpit.

"Please, please let me," John hears himself mutter, still half asleep. His dream was much of the usual: Harold fucking him roughly while telling John that he couldn't get off, while John was moaning into the sheets and going half mad with desperation. John blinks quickly to clear his vision: his cheeks feel wet, like he's been _crying_ , and, to make things even worse, crying while draped all over Harold, with a hard-on digging into his leg.

John makes a mortified noise and hides his face. Harold is awkwardly petting John's shoulder and, from what John could gather in the few seconds he spent being conscious, looking distressed.

"John?"

John is trying not to move. The front of his boxers feels wet and sticky, and even the warmth of Harold's leg against John's erection is too much: for one hysterical second, John wonders if maybe he can hump Harold's leg until he comes and pretend he was still asleep later.

"Ssh, it's fine, just– talk to me, please," Harold says. His tone would be calm on anyone else, but for Harold, it's a full blown panic attack.

If John was a little more awake and a little less desperately turned on, he might consider lying, deflecting or just running out of the room and putting his head into an ice bucket.

"I can't come," John blurts out, because apparently all that talk about 'no lasting neurological damage' was a _lie,_ "Please, just. You can't let me. I need." John moves his head so he can look at Harold. He has no idea what he needs, but he knows _viscerally_ that he has to control himself, that terrible things are going to happen if he doesn't get a grip.

"Alright," Harold says, even though he looks deeply confused. He still has a hand on John's shoulder, which is nice, and John leans into the touch.

Harold, being a _genius,_ apparently picks up on that piece of nonverbal communication and resumes petting John's shoulder, and John makes a grateful noise and lets his head rest against Harold's chest.

John takes deep, slow breaths, trying to center himself. "They used these electrodes during the interrogation," he hears himself say. John squeezes his eyes shut. This will be easier if he doesn't have to look at Harold's face.

Harold tenses for a second, then he makes a noncommittal noise.

"They put electricity through some part of my brain and it gave me these really vivid hallucinations," John says. Harold is warm and real and runs his fingers over John's shoulder while he talks, and it tethers John to the moment, reminds him that this is _real._

"What kind of hallucinations?" Harold's voice is gentle, and it makes something in John's chest ache.

John has a sudden sense-memory of feeling Harold's cock inside of him, of Harold's mouth against his hole, and his cock jerks against Harold's leg. John's whole body is shaking with the effort it takes to stay still.

"Ssh," Harold says, putting his arms around John, holding him, and John sobs and presses his face against the soft cotton of Harold's t-shirt. "It's alright, it's all fine."

"I wasn't – You were there, and I wasn't – I wasn't allowed to come until I told them what they wanted to know," John manages. His heart feels like it might beat out of his chest any minute. "I didn't tell them anything, I swear I didn't."

"I know you didn't," Harold says, in that soothing tone, and John relaxes a fraction. "What do you mean, I was there?"

John whimpers softly. "You were the one fucking me," he says. "You were making me feel so good, but I wasn't allowed to come, and I just. Nearly drove me crazy, Harold, I was begging you to let me, but I couldn't. I just _couldn't._ "

Harold is quiet for a long moment. Then he says: "You didn't tell them anything. You did very well, John."

John clings to Harold's shoulders, cries silently against his chest. "I'm sorry," he says. "You weren't supposed to know."

"Why not?" Harold asks. He is stroking John's back, careful, gentle touches.

"Didn't want you to know how pathetic I am," John says. "Didn't want you to know how much I want you."

Harold's embrace tightens around him. "Oh, John," he says. He sounds incredibly sad. Then, after a moment, he says: "It's over now, John. You did all you had to do, and it's over now."

John whines and moves closer, like he might be able to climb beneath Harold's skin and live there if he gets close enough.

"You can let go now," Harold says, and John makes a helpless, desperate noise.

"I _can't_ ," he says. "Every time I try, I just. I just _can't._ "

Harold hums and slides his hand into John's hair. "Do you think it would help if I touched you?"

"Yes," John says, before he has fully processed the thought, "yes, please, yes."

Then Harold tilts up John's head and kisses him, a careful, gentle kiss that makes John want to cry even more, because of all the things he deserves, it surely isn't _this._

"Come here," Harold says and nudges John to lie on top of him. Then he slides one hand down beneath the elastic of John's boxers and closes his hand around John's cock, and John groans and thrusts into his hand.

It's much better than any fantasy John has ever had, and he wants it to last so much longer, but he is too wound up and desperate: he clutches at Harold's arms and sobs against his chest and spills over Harold's fingers after just a few strokes.

After, he keeps pushing into the tight grip of Harold's hands until it's nearly painful, and Harold nudges him onto his back and awkwardly lowers himself down beside him to pull down John's boxers and lick him clean. John squirms and whines and gets hard again after some time, Harold's mouth coaxing him along. This time, John comes with his hands on Harold's shoulder, sobbing desperately.

When he's done, Harold kisses him and pulls him close and murmurs soothingly to him while John cries himself back to sleep in Harold's embrace, gripped by wonderful, immeasurable relief.

\--

John wakes up to sunlight and the smell of coffee: there is a small table next to the bed that holds room service breakfast, and while John's mouth waters at the idea of food, he immediately turns to his left to find Harold's side of the bed empty.

"I have to admit that I am not quite sure what your favorite kind of breakfast is," Harold says. John distantly wonders if he has motion sensors installed in the room or just an impeccable sense of timing. "So I ordered a bit of everything."

"Thanks," John croaks.

Harold wears his dressshirt with the sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He sits down on the edge of the mattress. "I wanted to apologize for last night," he says, and now John wants to crawl back under the covers and _die._

"We really don't have to talk about this," John says. "I was really out of it, I don't even know– I wasn't thinking."

Harold frowns at him. "Do you regret...?" John waits for a moment for Harold to continue the sentence, but he just looks at John with a worried expression, and John shakes his head vehemently.

"That's not what I meant," John says. "I just. Shouldn't have put you in that position."

Harold squints at him, like he has trouble following John's logic. "If anything, _I_ should apologize for taking liberties last night when you clearly weren't in any state to make sound decisions."

There is a smear of shaving cream on Harold's chin that he missed, and oh, now John knows how it feels to sleep curled up against Harold's chest, how good his hands feel when they are stroking John's back–

"I just want you to know that you're under no obligation," John says over the ringing in his ears. "In case you, you know." _In case you don't want me._

Harold reaches out for him, but sits so far away that he settles for resting his hand on John's ankle. "How could you ever think that I wouldn't give you anything you could possibly want?" he asks, and the anxiety in John's chest loosens like a knot coming untied.

John crawls over so he can put his head in Harold's lap, and Harold makes a soft noise and runs his fingers through John's hair. "I didn't know," Harold says, a little defensively. "We would have done this much sooner if I had known–"

John turns his head and nuzzles the swell of Harold's cock through his pants, suddenly desperate to have it in his mouth, and Harold says _"Oh."_ in a hilariously surprised voice and then "Alright, if this is, ah. If this is what you want–" and then John gets him to take off his pants and sit against the headboard and proceeds to suck Harold's cock until Harold curses and tugs at John's hair in polite warning, which only makes John work harder. Harold's hands tighten in John's hair when he comes, and his breath stutters and stops like he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

After, John kisses every bit of skin he can reach: the insides of Harold's thighs, the scar tissue on his hip and leg, the swell of his belly. They have breakfast in bed and John makes Harold curl up with him under the sheets later, for the purpose of napping and aimless groping.

"I never really questioned it," John says. He lies with his head on Harold's chest, mirroring their positions from the night before.

Harold has entwined their fingers and thoughtfully strokes his thumb over the back of John's hand. "Hmh?"

"That Greer poked a needle into this secret, hidden part of my brain that's all about... desires and emotional responses and being addicted to things, and the only thing I kept seeing was, well. You."

Harold's huffs a laugh. "I'll take that as a compliment, despite the potentially troubling implications."

John sits up to kiss Harold's exposed collarbone. "French Toast and scrambled eggs."

Harold frowns. "I'm sorry?"

"My favorite breakfast," John says, settling in again. "French Toast and scrambled eggs."

Harold runs his fingers over the back of John's head. It doesn't hurt, not even a little. "I'll keep it in mind," he says.

When John closes his eyes, he doesn't dream of anything at all.

\-- fin 


End file.
